Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “No, she’s in a bit of a state, poor lady. Anyway, thank you again. You two could be sisters,” he said suddenly, adding, “Sorry, Kate. Don’t suppose that’s exactly a compliment to you.”

  “Well, it is to me,” said Jocasta, “so that’s fine. And we’re always being told that. Aren’t we, Kate? It’s only our hair.”

  They set off in convoy; Clio said she wasn’t feeling too good and was happy to leave. She did look a bit rough, Jocasta thought, exhausted and very pale. Well, it had been a hell of a day. She didn’t feel great herself; she wondered when Gideon would be home. She really didn’t feel up to the Big Welcome.

  As they reached London, Nick drove off with a wave of his hand, and Josh got into their car. Kate moved into the back; she had been asleep and said she had a headache.

  “Poor old you. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just a bit…confused. But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m glad I went, though.”

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do about your contract?” said Jocasta.

  “No, I can’t. I know everyone thinks I’m stupid when it’s so much money, but I sort of agree with Mum. It’s too much; in a way, it’s scary.”

  “What’s this?” said Josh.

  “She’s been offered a fortune to model some makeup range,” said Jocasta.

  “What sort of a fortune?”

  “Lots of noughts,” said Jocasta briefly, giving him a look.

  “So why don’t you want to do it, Kate?”

  “I’m not even sure I don’t want to, but I feel like I’m signing my life away.”

  “Take it from me, young Kate,” said Josh, swivelling round to look at her, “if you’re not sure, don’t do it. No point doing some job you don’t like, just for the money. I should know. I’ve spent my life doing exactly that. Ask yourself if you’d do it for nothing. Or very little. That’s the test.”

  Kate was silent for a while, then she said, “I don’t think I would. I mean, it’s so boring. Everyone thinks it’s glamorous and it’s not. I can’t stand all this where-did-you-get-your-Botox-done rubbish. And acting like your jeans were a religion.” Josh laughed, and Kate told him about Rufus and Jed, and their whispering, and Crew as well. “They’re completely insane. Not like lovely Marc, who did the shoot for the Sketch,” she added to Jocasta. “He’s really quite normal. Although in that business, abnormal is normal.”

  “You ought to be a writer,” said Josh, “like my sister. You have a great turn of phrase.”

  “I did think of it for a while,” said Kate, sounding at least forty-five, “but I don’t think it’s for me. I tell you what I would like—I’d like to be a photographer. That seems much more fun to me. You’re really doing something then, aren’t you? Making something, I mean, not just sitting there.”

  “How extraordinary,” said Josh. “I’ve often said that’s what I’d like to do, given my time over again. Remember all those pictures I brought back from Thailand, Jocasta? Some of them were really quite good. I was looking at them the other day.”

  “I don’t, actually,” said Jocasta.

  “Well, anyway, Kate, I think you’ve really hit on a good career there. Much better than modelling. Tell you what, I’ve got a whole drawerful of pretty good cameras I never use. Bit antique, some of them, but they’re what the real boys use, none of your automatic nonsense.”

  Bought by our father, thought Jocasta tartly, when it was that month’s fad. “I could give you one if you like, get you going,” Josh was saying. “Give you a couple of lessons, even.”

  “Josh,” said Jocasta warningly. She gave him an icy look. She could see he was very taken with Kate. Silly bugger. How Beatrice stood it, she couldn’t imagine.

  On the way back to London, Janet Frean was repeatedly and violently sick; when she got home, she locked herself in her bedroom and refused to come out. Bob found it hard to care; she’d done what she needed to do, attended the funeral of the woman she must realise she had—possibly—helped to kill, and she now had to face her demons. He made her a cup of tea, called to her that it was outside her door, and went to see his children.

  Clio didn’t know what to do. She could be wrong. Josh might never have slept with Martha and it was hardly something you could ask. She had no proof at all. Jocasta always said that the only real similarity between her and Kate was their hair. And how awful if she was wrong: if she accused him of something he was totally innocent of. And even if he weren’t, what good would it do now if it came out? It would create dreadful problems in his marriage and he had enough of those. Maybe she should just remain silent. But she knew, as surely as she knew anything, that she wasn’t wrong. There was more to that likeness than hair: it was a smile, a way of standing, and an overall impression. And it all added up. If it had been some bloke Martha had just met travelling, she would have told them. She had said—what had been her exact words? “I couldn’t possibly have told him. Not possibly.”

  That fitted too: she couldn’t possibly, not then. It would have been too late, he could have been anywhere, and what could he have done? And later—well, Clio could see why not later. The humiliation, the admission of incompetence, running after the glamorous Josh—who wouldn’t want her, who would be horrified—saying, “Do something, I’m about to have your baby.” Or even, “I’ve had your baby.” Some girls would do that, wouldn’t see it as a humiliation, but as a bringing to book, a demand for justice. Not Martha.

  She fell into a feverish sleep, woke to find the car stopped and Fergus smiling down at her. “Whatever’s going on in your pretty little head? You’ve been muttering all kinds of nonsense.”

  “I…had a bad dream,” she said, managing to smile at him. “Sorry. Can we stop and have a cup of tea? I’ve got an awful headache.”

  Gideon Keeble arrived home at Kensington Palace Gardens at seven that evening, exhausted and on the edge of extreme bad temper. He had hoped to find Jocasta waiting for him with dinner organised; he found instead an empty house and a note to Mrs. Hutching.

  Mrs. Hutching, don’t worry about dinner, going out. See you in the morning. JFK.

  She was very tickled with her new initials, he thought, momentarily less irritated. He went into his study, expecting to find a note from Jocasta: there was none. Nor in their bedroom, nor in his dressing room. He called her mobile; it was on message. He checked his own: there were none.

  It is virtually impossible for extremely—or even moderately—rich people not to expect to get what they want, whenever they want it. They may imagine themselves reasonable, patient, easy; the fact is that the various people who are dependent upon them work to make their lives so agreeable that they do not have to become unreasonable, or impatient, or difficult. This process is in direct proportion to how rich they are; and Gideon Keeble was extremely rich. As nobody that night was making the slightest effort to make his life agreeable, he lost his temper very thoroughly.

  He didn’t lose it immediately. He called Mrs. Hutching down from her flat and asked, very nicely, for a light supper; he didn’t ask her if she knew where Jocasta was, that would have been humiliating. And then he went into his study to do some work and wait for her. She surely wouldn’t be long; she surely would call him.

  She was a very long time; and she didn’t call. And her phone remained on message. He didn’t leave one for her; that too, he felt, was undignified.

  At ten o’clock he went, exhausted, to bed; at eleven thirty he heard a taxi throbbing outside. He heard her come in, heard her pause—presumably while Mrs. Hutching told her he was back—heard her running upstairs. She came in; she was flushed, had obviously had more than a glass of wine. She smiled at him uncertainly.

  “Hi.”

  She bent down, gave him a kiss; he could smell the wine on her breath. It wasn’t very attractive. “Hello, Jocasta. And where have you been?” He managed to sound playful, good-natured, even; he saw her relax.

  “Just having dinner.”

  �
��With…?”

  “With friends.”

  “Oh, yes. Which friends? Nicholas Marshall, for one?”

  “For one, yes.”

  “Any others?”

  “Of course others. Gideon, I’ve had a shitty day, you weren’t here, I didn’t want to be at home on my own—”

  “Which other friends?”

  “People from the old days, on the paper. You wouldn’t know them. What is this, some kind of inquisition?”

  “I think I have a right to know who you’ve been with.”

  “Oh, really? A right? That sounds very old-fashioned to me.”

  “It does? I happen to think that as your husband I do have rights. Old-fashioned, yes. Reasonable—again yes. You seem to take a different view of these things.”

  “Oh, Gideon, stop it.” She sounded exhausted; she sat down on the bed. The flush had faded now and she looked very tired. “I’ve had such an awful day. You can’t think how sad it all was, the funeral and everything.”

  “I’m sure. I, too, have had an awful day. Trying to get on flights, changing at absurd places like Munich, all to get home sooner to you. And what do I find? An empty house, no note, nothing arranged for me, and you out with your previous lover—”

  “It’s so dangerous.”

  “What is?”

  “Implying that I’m back with Nick.”

  “And that’s not dangerous, I suppose? Your being with him? As you were the other day.”

  “I—What?”

  “You were with him on Sunday morning. I asked you where you were and you said you were at his flat.”

  “Gideon, for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t at his flat. I was dreadfully upset; I needed to be with someone. We met at a coffee place.”

  “Oh yes. And you were with him this evening, by your own admission.”

  “Yes, I was with him. And about ten other people. At a bar in Soho. Perhaps you’d like me to call them, get witnesses—”

  “Oh, get out of here,” he said, suddenly switching off the light, turning away from her. “Just get out. I’m extremely tired, I need some rest.”

  Jocasta got out.

  “I just can’t cope with this,” she said tearfully to Clio next morning on the phone. “I’m beginning to think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  Clio had a full surgery; she couldn’t really give this the attention it deserved. Just the same it seemed too absurd to ignore.

  “Jocasta, don’t be ridiculous, you’ve told me often that you love him, that you never knew what love meant before, that—”

  “Yes, and it’s true. I do love him. So much. But I don’t see how I can live with him, be his wife. It’s a horrible, awful, pointless life and I hate it.”

  “But Jocasta, don’t you think that’s a bit…childish?”

  “Oh, don’t you start on that one. It’s Gideon’s line.” Clio felt a wave of sympathy for Gideon.

  “Look, Jocasta, I can’t talk now. I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll call you later. Try to calm down. I’m sure you’ll feel differently later.”

  “I’m perfectly calm!” Jocasta’s voice was rising now. “And I won’t feel differently. I wish I’d never told you if you’re going to start talking crap like that.”

  She slammed the phone down. Almost gratefully, Clio pressed the buzzer for her next patient.

  Five minutes later, Jocasta tried to ring her back. The receptionist said Dr. Scott was with a patient and that she’d get her to call back later. Jocasta burst into tears.

  Gideon had left for work at seven, without even saying goodbye. She felt dreadfully alone, and shocked with herself at being so unpleasant to Clio of all people. What was happening to her? What was she turning into? Some kind of spoilt bitch, who had too little to do. Like the three other Mrs. Keebles, perhaps. God, it was difficult being married. If she’d realised…

  The phone rang; she snatched it up. Clio. Thank goodness. “Clio, I’m so—”

  But it wasn’t Clio, it was Gideon. “I’m sorry, my darling,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I behaved like a brat.”

  “I was just thinking the same,” said Jocasta, a laugh rising through her tears, “about me, I mean.”

  “No, no, you didn’t. You’d had a dreadful day and I should have been more understanding. Is there anything I can do to make you love me again? How about lunch?”

  “Lunch?” Was that the best he could do?

  “Yes. I thought we might go to the Crillon.”

  “The Crillon? Gideon, that’s in Paris!”

  “I do know that.”

  “But it’s almost ten o’clock.”

  “I know that too. If you can get over to City Airport, I’ll meet you there in an hour. Table’s booked for one o’clock. Please say you’ll come.”

  “I…might,” said Jocasta.

  It was a very good lunch; at the end of it, she leant across the table and kissed him.

  “Thank you. That was gorgeous.”

  “Good. So, am I forgiven?”

  “Totally. Am I?”

  “Nothing to forgive. Now—little walk across the Place de la Concorde? Or a little lie-down? You choose.”

  “Lying down sounds nicer. But where?”

  “I have a suite booked,” he said. “If you wouldn’t think that too corny.”

  “I love corn.” Suddenly she wanted him terribly. She stood up, took his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Later, she lay smiling at him, thinking how much she loved him, wondering at the raging anger she had felt only a few hours earlier. How could that happen, how could this simple biological event, this fusion of bodies, heal hurt, soothe anger, restore tenderness?

  “Clever old thing, isn’t she?” he said. “Mother Nature.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking. Sort of.”

  “Well, there you are. Like-minded or what? As you would say.” He bent and kissed her breasts, then said, “So—a new beginning, Mrs. Keeble?”

  “A new beginning. And I will try to be better.”

  “I don’t think,” he said, “that you could be better, in one regard, at least.”

  And kissed her again.

  At half past eleven that night, an ambulance arrived outside the Frean house. Janet had taken an overdose: whether or not it was too late to save her, nobody could say.

  But Bob, pacing up and down the hospital corridor an hour later, as they administered various drugs and antidotes, thought that he really should have foreseen the possibility of it, and felt an appalling remorse. In spite of everything.

  Chapter 40

  A dreadful rage was building up in Grace. She was angry with everyone: with her husband, who appeared to be coping with the loss of Martha far better than she was, by burying himself in his work; with Anne, who was still alive, while Martha was dead, and who kept telling her she must try to concentrate on the positive things in her life; with her son, who was not only still alive but also had a new girlfriend, who was a therapist of all things, and kept offering her skills to Grace, who most assuredly didn’t want them.

  She was also very angry with everyone in the parish who kept on asking with infinite kindness how she was, when they could perfectly well see how she was, which was in a dreadful state of misery; with the GP who had called round and suggested she perhaps consider some medication for her insomnia, when the only good which could come of that, as far as Grace could see, was that if she took them all at once, then her misery would be well and truly over. She managed to say that, so the doctor would understand; he patted her hand and told her she was too good and too sensible to even consider such a thing. That made her angry too.

  She was terribly angry with God, for allowing such a thing to happen, and also because He appeared to be withholding from her any of the comfort He was clearly showering down upon her husband.

  She was angry, too, with Ed, for not telling them he was in love with Martha, and denying them the happiness it would have brought, however briefly.

  And worst
of all, she was angry with Martha: that she could have been so reckless, so stupid, driving when she was tired, driving that ridiculous car which went much too fast, trying to do so much with her life, spreading herself too thin. And for leaving nothing of herself behind, nothing except this awful, bleeding blank.

  Every day she got angrier.

  “My darling, could we have a little talk?”

  Jocasta was lying in bed, watching Gideon while he dressed. This was increasingly a pattern; she had nothing to get up for, so she would wait until he had gone, and then lie in the bath for up to an hour, making non-plans, as she thought of them, to fill her day. It was actually quite nice, the watching; she would comment on his clothes, he would consult her on which tie he should wear, and tell her what he was doing for the rest of the day. On a good morning he would suggest what they might do in the evening, or even (occasionally) for lunch; he had been in London now for over a week and said he had at least another two before a big trip to the States she was to accompany him on. Life was rather more as she had imagined it.

  “Goodness, Gideon,” she said, “when my father said things like that, it meant I was in serious trouble.”

  He smiled at her, came over to kiss her. “Not serious.”

  “Unserious trouble?”

  “Not trouble at all. But are you all right, darling? You look very tired.”

  “I’m not tired at all, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “You said you had a headache last night.”

  “I did. But it’s gone now.”

  “Actually, I had a bit of a headache too, maybe it was that wine, I thought it tasted a bit off.”